BeforeKlok
by Kid Dynamite 090
Summary: The life and times of the boys before they were big, brutal rock stars. M for language & adult situations
1. Floridian Explosion

Hello, readers!  
Here is the first in a series about Dethklok before they were Dethklok. Here's my take on the boys (and possibly Ofdensen) before they began big.

Enjoy!

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Rose Explosion meant well. She meant well and loved her family. True, her son Nathan wasn't exactly planned, but she loved him all the same. Nathan was born a bit early but roughly average length and weight. Oscar Explosion, Rose's husband and the baby's father, wasn't so thrilled. It's not that he 'hated' his newborn son, but honestly the man wondered if he was ready to give up his time and money for a kid.

Nathan was treated as any other American child was. He was clothed, fed, and had the parental stimulation any child would need. And yet; there was something amiss with the boy. Besides him not speaking when most of the other toddlers were babbling and chatting, something in the boy's eye made you wonder. There was something there- a strange glint. It wasn't loneliness or neglect; but it almost looked like anger.

In kindergarten the teacher asked the children to introduce themselves. Nathan was asked his name and favorite color after a blonde boy with a wide smile introduced himself. Silence.

The school tried to have Nathan open up. They told Mr. and Mrs. Explosion, they had Nathan seek school counselors, and even the authorities were brought into the Floridian household to be sure there wasn't something intimidating the boy. Nothing.

"Nathan," Rose asked gently as the black haired boy sit on her lap, "Why won't you say anything, dear?"

"Yeah, what's wrong with you?" Oscar asked with a mild drunken slur, "Yer makin' us look like kiddy-beaters."

Rose looked down at her son. Nathan seemed to fiddle with his fingers some.

"Say something, boy! Anything!" Mr. Explosion exclaimed.

Nathan looked up at his mother, who was wearing an exhausted smile, and then over at his father.

"Alright," Oscar said as he pinched the bridge of his nose, "What... is you're name. Now I don't know if you're slow or what but it's damn near impossible you can't answer that one."

The two males locked eyes and Nathan, in a tone too serious for a five year old child, said his first two words:

"Nathan Explosion."

To the relief of the parents, Nathan could speak, so that meant one less problem. While Rose was optimistic that her son would flower into an average child, Oscar was much less hopeful. True, he was happy his son wasn't a mute, but he still doubted his son would be like the other kids on the block.

When Nathan silently witnessed the car crash and simultaneous vehicular homicide in second grade, Rose began to wonder if perhaps there was something slightly off with her Nathan. Even in school-mandated therapy Nathan said next to nothing. When he did speak, it was only a comment and nothing to elaborate on.

Rose still loved her son. Oscar still was somewhat indifferent and left the major parenting to his wife. Nathan's life was fairly uneventful through elementary school. He had no friends. He didn't want any. When he was left to recess or free time he would write. At ten years old his spelling may not have been perfect; but he was able to write out his feelings. Usually his songs were heavily violent for a child and he did his best to hide them from his teachers and parents. He remembered all the times he was forced to talk to 'doctors' and other 'specialists' about his muteness or when he saw the car wreck. Honestly, Nathan didn't feel the slightest tinge of shock or horror when the entire classroom was covered in blood and bodies. He just wondered if he would get to go home early.

As the school years went on, Nathan slowly began to change both outwardly and internally.

By the time junior high rolled around, the young boy was becoming a young man. No longer was he meek bodied with a chubby face. Rather, his arrow-straight, jet black hair was growing out and his body was slowly taking on the shape of someone that football coaches would want. Something also changed. He started to notice things with himself and wanted to do things.

He began to notice the girls in his classes. He started to imagine them naked and doing things to him. When he caught wind of some other guy getting a blow job or copping a feel he wondered what it was like. Nathan was never vocal about this, never asking his father about it, but kept it inside. Returning to a childhood hobby, he would write about it and hide it under his bed in his pale blue bedroom.

He really hated that pale blue room. Pale fucking blue. Nathan was really hating things more. Rarely did he speak up, though, just wrote about it. Even when his mother would ask him about things he would just lowly reply in his new voice. He wasn't sure if he liked his new voice. It was kind of gravely and deep. Nathan probably had the deepest voice in school. Not that anyone heard a lot of it.

The only things the black haired boy really liked were football, frog dissection and writing songs. Of course, he wasn't writing songs at that point. It wasn't until he sneaked into a local heavy metal show did he begin to turn his writing into actual song. Even if he didn't like his room, his school, and was on the fence about his voice; at least puberty gave him a thick body and a way to pass off for 18 at 15.

One of his favorite adolescent memories was thanks to his new body.

It was at his junior prom. He was still 16 and she was 18. Nathan didn't even want to go to prom. But his mom, Rose insisted.

"Oh come now, Nathan. It'll be good for you. Go out, have some fun, and maybe meet a nice lady friend," she said.

Nathan did go out, he did have a certain kind of fun, and he did meet a lady friend. Maybe friend wasn't a good term. He found a girl who was bored, easy, and hot. Needless to say, the two sneaked out of the dance and go to the girls house. What? Like Nathan, body of a quarterback and hair growing longer everyday, would bring a girl to his pale blue bedroom. Never.

The girl lived in a slummy area of town and her parents were no where in sight. Lucky for Nathan. He lost his virginity to a girl he had known for not even a full day. The girl obviously was not a first timer. She had a condom in her drawer and told Nathan he didn't need to hold back. That was possibly the one moment that Nathan really appreciated his mother for making him go out anyplace. After a first time with no strings attached and no awkward feeling Nathan walked back home.

"How was the dance, dear?" Rose asked as she greeted her teenage son, "By the looks of it you danced up a storm tonight."

Nathan couldn't help but smirk as he agreed with his mothers misconceptions and went off to bed that night.

It was only a few months after the dance did Nathan drop out of school.

"What the fuck did you do!" Oscar exclaimed after his son came home and proclaimed he dropped out.

"I dropped the fuck out, that's what!" Nathan roared at his father.

"Boys, boys calm down!" exclaimed Rose.

"Rose, what the fuck did we do? We had this kid and he never turned out right!"

Nathan sneered and looked away. He wanted to hurt his father. He wanted to snap his neck.

"Hey, fuck both of you," Nathan said in a sneer, "I dropped out of fucking high school and I'm going to fucking be my own man."

"By doing what!" Oscar exclaimed enraged, "You have no diploma! No diploma, no skills, no money, no job, no nothing!"

"I'll figure it out!"

Nathan stormed away from his parents and left then house. The gravely voiced young man was 17 and was without a cause. He didn't even really think about his future. He just thought about his lyrics. Under his bed there were folders and folders of papers all with ideas or complete lyrics.

It had rained a few hours before and the Florida air was thick with humidity. Eventually the young man found himself in front of a tattoo parlor. While he had no intention of getting ink (with what money, first of all) he went inside in the hopes of mooching some air conditioner.

The parlor was very small and even while the raven haired adolescent pretended to look at tattoos the pierced man at the counter was shooting his dirty looks. It didn't take long for Nathan to catch his own reflection in a mirror.

His face was devoid of childhood chub and his hair was long. He had a modest resemblance to his mother, but genuinely lacked both parents features. He assumed it was the Yaneemango blood that ran through his veins. When he was little, Nathan's mother told him that he had the illusive peoples in his lineage. To some degree it made him feel a bit separate from the other jack-offs (a term he began to use after he learned what the singular action was in his pre-adolescence).

Nathan had no idea where he was headed in life. But honestly; he didn't really care. Even before he dropped out of school he was hanging around local heavy metal and underground concerts and tweaking his songwriting abilities. Would it take him someplace in life? He didn't know. But he did know as he stood in that crappy tattoo parlor fresh from his premature last day of high school was that there was no way he would face his own death without clocking out of life with a brutal bang.


	2. Sour Pickles

Calvert and Molly of Tomahawk Wisconsin were so happy with their new baby son. He was adorable and born right on time. The Midwestern house they lived in was not large, but it was comfortable for a family of three. The proud parents showered their new addition with love and proudly called him their boy.  
And then Pickles was born.  
Pickles was born two years after Seth and was not so well received within the family. All of a sudden Molly had to care for a growing toddler and a new baby. Calvert had to repeat all the motions he took with Seth. Before his baby brother arrived Seth had a room to himself and could play and grow in warm laughter. Now, he had to adjust to sharing a bedroom with a baby who cried and needed to constantly have their mother tend to him.

It began to slowly dawn on Pickles he wasn't seen as an equal to his brother. In elementary school Calvert would be there when Seth needed a parent for a school picnic or other event. Pickles was lucky if his mother would show up for a few minutes when it was the redheads turn.  
Seth was a popular fellow but rather sneaky. He had no problem stealing a basketball at recess from the girls or even sneaking a few false lines of gossip into the social flow of school. It was fun. Pickles was a bit more of a loner. He had a few friends, but most of the time Seth threatened his younger brother about hanging in the same social circle. At that time, Pickles was small and meek so his brother's words were law.

Through middle school the fawning Seth received over the most minor achievement ("Oh Calvert come here! Look! Our Seth passed math with a D! We know how hard numbers can be.") became ever more apparent and began to burn all the more.

It was in 7th grade did Pickles finally find something that he could call his own: music.  
The redhead with brilliant eyes was messing around the band room when he stumbled upon a dusty drum kit. He was alone, and even without knowing a single thing about music, began to pound. It was pretty loud and not good, but Pickles knew it was his own. By the time Pickles was in 10th grade he was not just a drummer but also a pretty well rounded guitarist and vocalist. He was singing with some other burn out students and trying to spend as much time away from home as possible.  
Whenever the redhead came home it was always to screams by his drunken father. When Calvert drank he was the ultimate drunken Irish stereotype. He was loud and looking for a brawl. Worse than that, he would always single out his youngest boy.  
"You were a mistake!"  
"Why didn't your mother just give you away!"  
"Why can't you be like Seth! He's a real man!"  
Pickles was 17 and had just graduated high school when he knew it was time. He packed his bags and the crappy guitar he bought and was ready. His hair was large and teased and the only monetary support he had was just enough for a ticket part of the way to L.A. and maybe a cheap motel.  
Even though he was in the backseat and in the shadow of his brother, Pickles did attempt to stay. His father had just come home and he was sitting in front of the TV with an ice cold beer freshly cracked open in hand.  
"Dad?" Pickles asked.  
His father gurgled and looked at his son with a guitar case and duffle bag. The tipsy man slumped down a bit and stared hard into his lap.  
"So you're leaving," he said in a mild slur.  
"If you really want me… I'll stay," Pickles said in a small voice.

"Get out of here!" Calvert exclaimed, "You belong in the trash can!"  
Pickles sneered and whispered his final 'fuck you' to his father before departing. It was getting late and it was a fair walk to the bus station. Once his ticket was bought he waited at least an hour for the final bus to arrive. Once Pickles was on the idea that he was on his own was cemented into his brain.  
He didn't do much in his old town. He smoked cheap weed and drank piss warm alcohol. He never had a girlfriend and all his friends were losers. He was happy to leave. He was estatic he was speeding away from his parents and Seth.  
The ride took him just about half way to the coast and now he needed a new plan of attack. He had a quick nap on the bus but otherwise was running on empty. His bags seemed so much heavier than when he had left and he spent a lot of time sitting in the bus station that he arrived in. The Wisconsin boy had just about nothing to his name than a thick accent and a few bucks. _'Well, I have a guitar,' _Pickles thought, _'I should try and play some gigs and get some dough.' _

Easier thought than done.  
Where the bus stopped must have been even more cornball that his home state. Nothing he did took. If anything he lost money since even twinkies and coke-a-cola cost money.  
It had been three days since Pickles left home and he already was in trouble. No money, no food, and the alley where he slept was now being patrolled but the cops. He almost considered going home, but that thought was quickly erased with the glam rock-looking adolescent promising he'd kill himself before go back to that hell hole. He knew the road to freedom and being his own man was rough, but he was beginning to feel it was impossible alone.  
Pickles had fifty dollars left in his pocket when he sat in a rundown tavern with his things. Sure, he didn't look anything over 21, but he was so desperate for something to wipe his mind he overpaid the bartender enough that he got a beer.  
"You barely look like you're 100 pounds, kid," said a man next to Pickles.  
"Aw fuck off, man I ain't in the mood."  
The man had purple hair and a top hat on. He was a bit older than the redhead, but maybe not exactly 21.

"You a musician?" the man asked, looking at Pickles guitar case.  
"Yea I guess you could call me that."  
"Where you from? Never heard a dialect like yours before."  
"Fuckin' Wisconsin," Pickles said as his lips left his beer can.  
"How about you come with me. Me and some friends are leaving for California in a few."  
Pickles looked at the man with an expression of simple surprise.  
"No foolin'?"  
"I have one condition for you, though," the man asked as he got up from his barstool.  
"Yea?  
" You got to be in my band for a while. At least help us get our name out."  
Pickles thought for a moment. This was exactly what he needed. He figured even if their band sucked that he could at least present himself and put his talents out there.  
"Alright, you got yourself a deal. What's the name of yet band anywho?"  
"Snakes N' Barrels."  
The younger man nodded and left the tavern with his things and the man. A few blocks away a care was waiting with two other men inside. Everyone introduced themselves and the man from the tavern promised Pickles he could share there little apartment and that the redhead would learn the ropes of being a rocker in a big city. The blonde man of the group was driving and Pickles, sitting next to the man from the tavern, said simply, "I can't thank ya enough, guys."  
"Pickles," said the tavern man know known as Tony, "We are going to be big."


	3. Product of a Murderface

Nobody could comprehend what was going through Mr. Murderface's mind that night when he pulled a chainsaw on his wife and then himself. Thankfully, a neighbor heard the screams of Mr. Murderface's wife and called the police. Even still it was too late when they arrived. All the authorities found was a small baby boy sitting in a kitchen highchair. The little boy was plump, but not too heavy and had big lime-colored eyes. The police feared he saw the whole thing, but once they got some food into him he seemed as jovial as any other baby.  
The area that the Murderface's lived in was not one of prestige. Those who didn't live in trailer homes lived in small, cramp houses. The area that the only relatives that baby had left in the world didn't live so much better.  
Stella and Thunderbolt were baby William Murderface's paternal grandparents and lived in a rickety house that was just bigger than a shoebox. The grandparents were getting on in age, but they knew they had to raise the orphan boy.

Over the years William began to really take his shape. And by take his shape, he began to look very similar to his grandmother.

"Have a good day at schchool, William," Stella would tell William when she dropped him off at school.  
In elementary school he knew he was different. He would see the other kids go home with their parents who were obviously much younger than his own guardians. He already had a lisp like his grandmother and his hair was beginning to frizz and take its true form.

"My names is William," the young boy would say to his fellow classmates.  
"You look weird," was a very common response, second only to, "Why do you talk funny?"  
On more than one occasion did William come home in tears.  
"What's wrong?" his grandfather would ask.  
"The other kids made fun of me…!"  
Things looked up only slightly when he began middle school. The green eyed fellow was a certified loner. He would spit insults and assume a higher stance against anyone who said anything to him.

By 6th grade he was a regular at the principal's office.  
"William Murderface," said the smartly dressed man behind the office desk, "Some of the girls said you were dangerously close to the ladies locker room. Is that true?"  
William would slump down and, in typical fashion, say frankly and without remorse, "I jusht wanted to see shome tits."  
"Mhm. Could your acting out maybe be part of your home situation?"  
When people brought up his 'home situation' William went to an all new level of anger. So what? Stella told William that his dad killed his mom and then himself. People do that. The young Murderface saw shows on TV where people killed people. Big deal.  
Around this time was when Murderface was given a knife by Thunderbolt. A nice hunting knife that William was reluctant to be without.  
"Hey, dickwads," taunted William in the school yard when he began high school, "Check this schit out!"  
Even more in middle school William became a regular at the principal's office during his high school years. Keeping barely a C average in school, William soon began going solely by his last name and became all the more violent.  
Around this time was when Murderface found the bass guitar. He stole it from other kid and quickly felt he had a knack for it. For once in his life the adolescent was eager to learn something. Mostly self taught, Murderface looked up music and threatened and knife point other students to teach him how to play.  
It wasn't long before bass and drugs were his daily routine.

Everyone knew the local dope dealer; a shady character who hung out in the mini-mart parking lot. But what made him a popular figure with the drugging crowd was that for the right price he'd buy alcohol for his customers.  
Murderface would be damned if the school authorities would get between his dope, beer and bass.  
"I'll fucking schlit your throat!" Murderface roared to his principal one day after being called in the office.  
By now the young boy was a young adult and looked like a force to reckoned with. His hair was in a frizzy triangular-esque shape and his teeth had a gap (possibly from never having braces from lack of funds). He pulled his favorite knife on the man and looked him straight in the eye.  
"What do you want!" the principal exclaimed, fearing for his life.  
"I'm going to schmoke my dope, drink my booze and play my fucking base while you passh me."  
It was an odd request, but the principal folded. Murderface spent most of his school days in an empty classroom or in the bathroom with his contraband.

All that time gave Murderface time to think. He never did anything spectacular with himself. He could play bass pretty well, but he didn't know what to do with it.  
"I schould schow the world my talents…" he said aloud during one of his bathroom sessions, "I schould make a scholo bass project…"

When he was home he watched his grandparents grow ever older and ever frailer. Slowly the age barrier began to rub him the wrong way. His grandmother seemed to nag more and the little things she did made Murderface want to hurt someone.  
His cramp room became his refuge. With playboys and cheap porn on the floor among laundry and some old school work, Murderface was truly at peace. The bassist even had his first sexual experience in that room… after bribing a local girl with a twenty dollar bill. After that; he felt like a man. But what else was a man to do?  
He stole some money from his grandparents and did the manliest thing he could think of. After forging his grandmother's signature, he got his first tattoo on his stomach at 17.

When it was graduation time, William didn't get involved with the celebration and ceremony. Rather, he yanked his diploma from the principal and walked away from everyone giving the finger and spitting insults.

Now he had to make a decision. Murderface knew he couldn't live with Stella and Thunderbolt forever, and he didn't want to spent his life in the hell hole he grew up in. Murderface knew he was going to need his bass in life. How long his life would be he wasn't exactly sure. One thing Murderface knew was that as long as he had his bass and money for booze and hookers he would be alright.


	4. Swedish Elf

Hello, readers!  
Sorry about this chapter. I know it's not that long and the chapters are progressively getting shorter. Don't worry, though. If you still enjoy the series I will do Toki indefinitely. Enjoy!

It all began to go down for Serveta Skwigelf after she was crowned Miss Sweden. All the money she had won was beginning to drain away. The large house she had bought was being taken away for lack of payment. But there was the men. She was tall, blonde and beautiful. That was one thing no one could take away.  
Men kept on coming even after Serveta moved to a fairly remote little cottage. Sometimes one, sometimes two, hell Serveta managed to pleasure and please three men at once on occasion. It felt good. She loved feeling wanted. Men would beg for her to open her legs. They loved her slim figure and full lips.  
Sadly, it wasn't too long before even her playgirl lifestyle began to tip south.  
"Gratulationer, saknar Skwigelf. Du väntar dig ett barn," said the doctor.  
_ Congratulations, Miss Skwigelf. You're expecting a baby._

Serveta never wanted kids. She didn't even really want marriage. But there it was. She was pregnant. For the first few months it was alright. The men still came; some even liked the slight weight gain. But as time went on and her belly swelled the men were less and less. She was alone, lonely and pregnant. When she went into local maternity stores she saw women with their men happily buying baby furniture and clothes. She didn't even care to learn the sex of her unborn baby.  
When the baby was finally born she was still alone. It was when she first cradled the baby in her arms did it really sink in that she was a single parent who didn't even know the first name of the baby's father.  
"Jag ska kalla dig Skwisgaar," was the first sentence she said to her son in the hospital.  
_ I will name you Skwisgaar._

At first life for baby Skwisgaar was fairly normal. His mother fed him, changed him and even managed to play with him in their little Swedish home. It was only when Serveta got her pre-baby body back did the men return. Instead of sitting on the floor with her son as he played the young mother would lie in bed with a stranger while Skwisgaar had either free roam or was trapped in his crib.

Skwisgaar learned early on that he was most often on his own. It wasn't long before it was up to him to walk to elementary school and back. Sometimes his mother would forget to pack his lunch (or just didn't have the money) so it was either steal, go hungry or try and get nourishment from snow cones that had no delicious flavoring.

By middle school Skwisgaar knew his mother loved men more than him. He would sometimes hear men in town banter about how many times they shared Serveta's bed for the night. But still; this was his mother.  
Every day Skwisgaar would leave for school and come home. For the most part he tried to come home happy. He pretended to be chipper and pretended not to be tearing inside. But one day. One day that changed.  
"Mother!" Skwisgaar called happily into the home.

Inside, the ten year old, Skwisgaar saw a sight no son should see. There, in the middle of the living room, the young blonde boy saw his mother being violated by two men. The poor son could sweat beads roll down the three faces as the men did dirty things to Serveta.

Skwisgaar ran away. He wanted to forget. He wanted the wolves to devour him. Even if he saw something that no son should see, seeing and running from that sight led to the discovery of his guitar; his beloved guitar. Soon, the sounds his mother made in bed at night or her lack of parental care didn't seem to matter. Skwisgaar would play his guitar. As if by magic he began to finger new chords and bridges. Ever moment he had free he played. His mother didn't matter anymore. He no longer strived to preserve this perfect life or pretend he was alright.  
By puberty Skwisgaar was a showing changes. He grew his hair out and began to openly like girls. When he found one he liked he would bring the girl home for an intense make-out session or sleepover. He didn't care. And from what he could tell nor did Serveta.  
By 14 he already gave his virginity up. She was cute, if not a bit chubby. The two went at it right while Serveta was downstairs and later the girl left like nothing happened. Maybe it was having sex so young that made him want more. Skwisgaar was open to any form of sexual contact by the local girls. Serveta didn't even ask if he had a girlfriend.  
By high schools end Skwisgaar was in his true form. He was taller than his mother, just a blonde, just as blue eyed and regarded as one of the more handsome men in town. He was done with Sweden. He was done with Serveta.  
The plane ticket was made and Skwisgaar left his home with just a small bag of clothes and his guitar. He was headed to America. He had honed his guitar skill and was ready to grace one lucky band the perfection that was Skwisgaar.


	5. War of Divinity

It was seen as a blessing when Anja Wartooth became pregnant by her husband Reverend Aslaug Wartooth. The tiny congregation thanked their God that the holy family was expecting. The reverend and wife expected an heir to their small, yet powerful religious sect. For the entire pregnancy Anja prayed to their God for the safety of her baby. Just days after the nine month mark exactly their son was born. The heir was born.  
At the Baptist the entire congregation brought gifts and preyed as the boy was bathed in holy water by his father. The entire room was filled with Norse chanting and prayer as the tiny infant was sprinkled with the holiest of water.  
Many of the followers believed Toki would take his father's place when the elder Wartooth was gone. Sadly, this idea did not one that the parents saw fit.

It was Anja who first doubted her son's place in their religious sect. She didn't feel her son was as holy as he should have been. Aslaug agreed. The two were deeply saddened that their son was not born in His favor. The parents preyed and preyed trying to instill a higher spirit into the boy, but as far as the parents could tell it was all for naught. By the time Toki was a babbling, bobbling toddler the reverend and wife didn't know how to completely handle their child. He was not as divine as he was supposed to be.  
"We will prove to God that our son is under our holy guide," Aslaug told his wife.  
Proving Toki's divinity was no easy or humane task.  
The boy was home schooled, taught by Anja in between masses which he was forced to attend. More than reading and mathematics, the young child was expected to know the strange religion his parents taught. By the time Toki should have been in second grade he was already used to the extreme practices his parents inflicted on him to prove to their God that he was worthy.  
His father would whip the young boy and tell him that the blood that stained the snow was infected with demonic energy. His mother would chain and shackle her son to the basement wall during masses leaving Toki in darkness to listen to the chanting and singing of mass on the above floor.

"Father," Toki once asked his father when he was 12, "Can I please go into the village?"  
"No, my son. You must prove yourself worthy to God before you can do anything else."  
Toki took his fathers word to heart. He helped out whenever he could and took his abusive trials silently.

It was only when the abuse took a new turn did Toki begun to reconsider his submission.  
There was a girl in mass one day. She was cute, with dark hair and light eyes. The congregation was forbidden to speak unless in prayer or holy song, but Toki tried to speak to the girl through his gaze. She giggled at him. He smiled wide. His father and mother saw.  
Later that night Toki still thought about that girl. At first he imagined what her voice was like or what she liked to do, but soon his thoughts dipped to a bit more eroticism. Aslaug, remembering how his son was looking at the girl, burst into Toki's room late and at night and yanked his son from his bed. Dragging the boy to the mass chapel, Aslaug nearly drowned Toki in holy water as he mumbled various prayers to quell his son's lustful demons.  
Toki knew this wasn't right. He never had a friend, but he knew his father should never nearly drown him. At that point his parents' strange rituals and religions began to rub at the prepubescent youth. Toki began to do things he shouldn't. He snuck out at night and visited the nearly villages. He met people and really discovered his personality. More importantly, he found black metal.

The heavy drums, ripping guitar and booming vocals made him feel right. Toki was too smart to let his parents know about his taste in music; they'd just say it was the devil. All Toki knew was that 'the devil' was much more alluring than his parent's cult.

It's sad that Toki never had a normal childhood. There was no normalcy in Toki's life. There was just cult religion and fear. Fear his father might actually kill him. Fear his mother could let her son starve.

To the reverend and wife, it was sad their son was never elevated spiritually. No matter what they did, no matter how hard they preyed nothing came of it. He was a lost cause. When Toki bravely said he was leaving, neither mother nor father said anything. A simple icy glare was all they gave their son as Toki took what few possessions he had and left.  
Sleeping in pub bathrooms and surviving on bar food was not something most people would consider glorious. And yet to Toki, it was something of triumph. He was on his own with just about no outside experience; it was a child fending for itself. No longer was Toki a slave in his own home. No longer did Toki have to fear his parents. He was free. Even if freedom meant begging for bread.


End file.
